


A Night of Wild Things.

by Gevar



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: Forever is never forever in a vampire's dictionary.





	1. I - Black Tuxedo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think they would travel with their robes,” he questions, pointed fingernails scratching against his perpetually unshaven jaw, “Honestly, the cloak’s going to make it harder to distinguish them from the monks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place three years after Breaking Dawn. Canon relationships are intact.

**I.**

* * *

 “My lover is still my lover, even if he shares a bed with another.”

—Cyan Stainthorpe. 

* * *

 **Twisted expressions etched on armies of weathered statues.** Anything form ghoulish agony to maddening pleasure. Deities, of three-headed creatures and serpentine tongues, lost to time and men. Only a handful worshippers exist today. Plying gifts and sacrifices to obscure fallen gods. Rigid rituals carried out, as it was back in the days.

All done in obscurity, hidden from the eyes of contemporary denizens. Their fantastical beliefs, Lysander doesn’t judge. Society, the one that reigns supreme over the fragmented lands, is merciless to religions they cannot comprehend. 

Once, their ghastly appearances disturb his diamond-reinforced nerves. That feeling is flighty, escapes from his being. Even before he has the wits to obey. Now, it stirs him. Cocoons him with nostalgia’s blanket. That too, doesn’t last. They don’t sway him, like they did the first he chanced upon them with his youth-tinted vision.

Prop against the feet of a toddler-size vixen-eyed statue, is a displaced rectangular clock. Its hands ticking time away.

Everything is timeless. Untouched by the hands of modernity. Paintings of another god (bat-fanged and hawk with a man’s head, surprisingly his favourite) performed miracles, titivated every smooth surface. Millennia-old artwork with enough colour to enchant appreciating eyes.

Silk webs spiralled from piles of tomes and lexicons, tangled with edges of dust-coated wooden shelves, up to the decorated ceiling. Oddly, it stops short from extending its tendrils to his ‘artistic’ touch to the forgotten temple’s many altars. 

Crimson red blots so insignificant to the eyes, dotted along the walls in wild angles. A relic from his blissfully ignorant youth days. Indiscernible unless one seeks for it.

This is not one of his many moments where he muses about his past. Lysander returns his wandering gaze to a dog-eared paperback. Shifts his long body into resting comfortably on cracked leathered-armchair. His legs dangling over the armrest. Reaches the floor, short nails scrap against ancient stones. Leaves erratic scars marring the pristine sandstone.

His self-imposed solitude ends, with swan-like grace tapping echoes in dark corridors heading to his little haven. Footsteps, tinged with clumsiness.

“They’re here, aren’t they?” Lysander starts, lazily taking his eyes from Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. His sigh bounces in splintered directions. His forehead wrinkles, as their eyes— _hauntingly ruby_ —meet.

She’s not one with exceptional beauty. Not quite like the exquisite roses, Heidi and her little red dress. Or lilies, like Irina with her prairie-golden hair.

Underneath that ashen pallor, lies the vestiges of skin russet—kissed by warm sunshine penetrating Borneo’s canopy green. Not quite the angular Caucasian cheek, but hints of Asian’s influence. Her eyes—once was mahogany brown—now strikingly claret. Long eyelashes that could get him to grovel. Lysander’s a man not easily move to his knees. Even when the circumstances calls for it.

She’s west and east altogether. Product of two clashed worlds. Neither one nor the other, she suffered under the prejudiced eyes of two races. Time’s kind to her, for she fits well within the melting pot called diversity.

(But he loves her anyway. She’s his imperfectly perfection.)

Her lips, full and loving, parts to a smile. She takes two steps, in heels she couldn’t conquered despite she predates its creation. Casts her feathered eyelashes at the wall nearest to her. “Just about so, they’ve touched down. Or so the airport tells me.”

Lysander shoots a cursory glance at the clock. His brain races a mental calculation for an estimation. “That gives us about two hours? From the town to here, on top speed.”

“Sounds about right,” she agrees. Her black fingernail tracing red swirls on a deity’s carnelian necklace. Her hair, obsidian like midnight skies bereft of moonlight and stars, always messy—all tied and looped in braids.

Cyan’s never one to favour flashy gowns. The one-piece dress hanging on her lithe frame, he remembers, she acquired in a German flea market. Not high-end stores that littered Paris or Milan.

He marks the page, shuts the book close. Pushing himself out from the chair, Lysander walks up to her. Leans against the wall, his eyes fall on her tantalising collarbone hidden away by her figure-hugging burgundy dress.

“Think they would travel with their robes,” he questions, pointed fingernails scratching against his perpetually unshaven jaw, “Honestly, the cloak’s going to make it harder to distinguish them from the monks.”

“Don’t be so rude,” she admonishes, and yet those lovely lips mirror his grin. She hooks her index finger underneath his chin, tilting his head upwards. “My eyes are here,” she comments, not a hint of annoyance anywhere in her husky tone.

“What?” Lysander lifts a brow, shrugs. “I can’t help it, if that’s the truth,” he grins, impish like the devil’s help incarnate. 

“Careful now, not all of us have some sense of humour,” she warns, eyes his blue shorts and basketball jersey, “Sarcasm is the number one cause of premature deaths in vampires.”

He ties his hair into a half-bun, the ends spilling onto his neck. A habit carried from his human life, to keep his hands busy, “So I’ve been told.”

“I think a change is in order,” she says, tucks a loose strand behind his ear. Her fingers brushing the side of his exposed neck. Instantly, she reads all that secrets he locked in the deepest recesses of his mind, buried under a mask of indifference and the occasional jesting.

(If he abandons his impeccable sense of decorum, succumbs to his desire’s temptation—she gladly accommodates. For that is Cyan and her need to fulfill another’s wishes knows no bound.)

A moment to enact his desires passes without any protest or action. They lock garnet-eyed stare. Lips sealed, desires suppressed.

Cyan presses soft kiss to his cheek, “Kassia will not tolerate tardiness,” whispers she, into his ear. The last serves as a gentle reminder, despite the frustration taut in her raspy tune.

“I will,” he says, playful as always, “soon.”

She twirls around, heads for winding corridor. Cyan pauses, tosses a glance over her shoulder, “Wear your best suit.”

“Which one?”

He fleetingly recalls arrays of century-spanning tuxedos, preserved as best efforts allowed. He crinkles his nose in distaste. Tedious work spent to seeking for the tux that doesn’t disappoint his audience. 

She opens her mouth to protest. Cyan sighs. Her gothic-lined lips curling into a smile, “You know what? Just wear one that looks good on you.”

“Then we are of luck that black tuxedo never went out of style.”


	2. II - The Cullen Ladies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Esme Cullen, Carlisle’s wife. Isabella Cullen, Edward’s,” Lysander rattles the first words on his mind, forcing himself to produce a smile (common courtesy, Cyan reminds him), “I have heard so much things about you two.”

**II.**

* * *

 “If I could communicate by touch alone, I would never stuck my foot in my mouth. But I would be touching everyone inappropriately.”

—Chan Zhou.

* * *

 **Lysander fits himself into a dust-sprinkled tuxedo**. Rakes a comb to get his tangled, shaggy hair into something presentable. He settles for the loose bun he favours so much. A topknot, fashioned with a chopstick, doesn’t match his tux. 

Lionel enters, all decked in the finest wear money could buy. Midnight blue suit tailored to his gangly limbs. His shoulder-length hair, anthracite black, slicked backwards and fastened in place with unhealthy amount of hair gel. His crystalline eyes flashing red amusement.

“You are not going to tonight’s event with your hair like that,” Lionel objects, a smirk tugging the corners of his thin lips. 

“I see, Cyan sent the cavalry.”

“I am not the cavalry,” he retorts, suppressing a congenial smirk on the verge of forming, “but I am here to salvage any part of your appearance worth saving.”

“Save the flattery and proof your rather empty words,” Lysander challenges, face laced with rogue stoicism. His fingers set his unruly mane free, spilling onto his shoulders.  

Lionel works his soft delicate hands, twisting Lysander’s hair into knots. He tugs lightly, in rhythmic beats that could lull Lysander, had they’re capable of slumber. Their friendship’s rare as friendship concerns to Lysander.

A man of few words, in the company of a man with even lesser words. He’d predicted they wouldn’t get along once. It’s a prediction that never passes. And two men—ancient creatures of monstrous kind—bask in the silence so effortlessly.

“There.” He passes hand-held mirror to Lysander. Lionel folds skinny arms across his chest, lips pursed in thought.

Lysander gestures a dismissive and confident wave at the mirror, “I trust your judgement when it comes to such things.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” Lionel asks, arching a thin brow, “For I am no expert of socially acceptable appearances.” And yet, Lionel holds up the mirror for Lysander anyway, lips set in a pleased beam.

“Doesn’t matter. Cyan believes in your abilities, as do me.” Lysander turns his face sideways, his profile reflecting the fish-tailed braids lined the sides of his head, “I looked like Cyan though.”

“You should. I did hers too.” Lionel frowns. “I only know one type of braid anyway.”

Lysander breaks into a grin. Lionel’s theatrics is subtle, only detected once one knows him long enough. He has plenty of years to coax Lionel’s inner prima donna tendencies.

“Come on, now. Kassia requested all of us to attend the briefing.” Sighing, Lysander ends their comradery and gets to his feet. Dusting flecks of dust on his lapels, he spares a glimpse at his friend.

“Then we getter go,” Lionel quips, “I rather face Felix in the battlefield than Kassia’s wrath if we’re late.”

* * *

 **His coven gather in one of the smaller chambers.** Manuscripts flooding the wooden shelves. The carvings of forgotten civilisation remained intact. Lysander sets his attention elsewhere, scans through the members of his coven for Cyan. Sees none of Lionel’s trademark braids anywhere. 

The briefing barely lasts ten minutes. It’s standard routine protocol. Parties are rare enough for their coven, especially at this massive scale, but Kassia’s vigilance will not have them lax easily. All that said and done, they leave the ‘library’—Cyan declared the chamber to be known as for the time being—into the Hall of Dancers. The hall she spent years restoring to its former glory with unexpected urgency.

They blend into a crowd of varied hair textures, skin tones, and wildly incomprehensible fashion trend coalescing at the hall. Joining other covens from all around the world, from the far flung corners of the earth—where modernisation stalls from devouring the primitive people.

Cyan hooks a slender arm around his. “Lionel, I don’t care what they say about you not being gifted,” she says, licking her cold thumb and runs her thumb down his jaw, “Lysander here proved that you have a gift.”

“The gift of transforming this man from a thousand year old hermit to a dashingly handsome modern man,” she adds, her lovely black-lined lips twitching into a smile.

“Still not as awesome as yours or Lysander,” Lionel retorts, matching the smile on Cyan’s face.

“Unfortunately true,” Cyan agrees.

“I love what you’ve done to the hall,” Lysander interrupts, stirs them away from talks of gifts and the burdens lying thick beneath such powerful word.

Dancers with claw-like nails arched skywards and their shapely bodies frolicked to soundless music, chiselled on the courtyard’s four walls. He recalls a particular favourite of his—a female spirit twirled on her raised feet—headless with her hands chipped off. Now, the dancer dazzled curious eyes with ornate headdress, brass bracelets and slender pointed fingers. 

“The chandelier is a nice touch,” he jests, waves absentmindedly around the hall. There is no chandelier, except the flaming torches hanging down from the ceilings.

She rolls her eyes, malice in her garnet irises is missing. “I had three years to restore everything to its original condition—”

“Then you did a fantastic job,” Lionel plies her with unfiltered adoration. His smile grows even wider, at the sight of Cyan’s lips quirking upwards.

Lysander teases, casting a side glance at Cyan. “Three years is not enough.”

“Cyan, there you are,” Zahra interrupts them, her English spoken in a British accent, “Mathavan’s looking for you.”

Zahra Abd-Kadir, Iran’s representative in their coven, dressed in a violet robe with Persian influences. She presses kisses on both sides of Cyan’s cheeks. The two women share a hug. Lysander and Lionel nod their heads, a show of their acknowledgement. 

Cyan questions, “Where is he?”

“There,” Zahra answers, points a finger at the hall’s entrance. She returns the men’s nods with her own and sets for the entrance. With Zahra’s departure for Mathavan, Cyan excuses herself from their conversation and trails after Zahra.

“Looks like they’re here,” Lionel says.

“Maybe.”

Lionel turns to level an inquiring stare, “What would you like to do now?”

Lysander shrugs. “There’s not much to do except to greet old friends and make new ones.”

* * *

 **Lysander sees old friends as the new wave of fresh and familiar faces come into the Hall of Dancers.** He goes around the hall, trading hellos and ‘how are you’ queries with his acquaintances. Only after the reconnecting affair ends, Lysander escapes to hide behind one of the octagonal colonettes. 

The colonettes, narrow decorative columns, lending support to the beams that holds the hall’s roofs. The columns are located at the edges of the hall. Shadows cast over certain colonettes, shielding him away from the guests—a temporary reprieve from mundane socialisation.

Crouching behind the column, Lionel carves an understanding grin on his face. He scoots over, giving Lysander some space of his own. And Lionel’s not the only one in need of a temporary relief from socialisation.

Two redheaded men, with matching hairstyles, eyes the hall and its denizens with scrutinising crimson gazes.

The men are tall, that their heads nearly touch the chamber’s gopura. Both long limbed with stalwart bodies. The sides of their head are all shaved, expect for the top of their heads. Short cropped hair, with a clean trim of sideburns that stopped short from passing their lower tip of their earlobes. The resemblance between the two men is uncanny.

Lysander notes the conspicuous servants roaming around the hall freely. Their costumes, made from cheap fabric, loose stitching and uneven dye colour, brings a smile to his face. 

“I admire your security detail, Gan. Ostentatious yet simple,” Lysander points out, directs his index finger at the nearest servant.

“The circumstances call for such design,” Gan replies, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. His smiles are charmingly cheeky, makes him rather boyish in appearance. A stark contrast to the other man with his thin-lipped smile.

Tömör helpfully explains, “The Cullens brought along their newest additions.”

Lionel half turns to the courtyard, stands on the balls of his feet. He cranes his neck over the built-like-fortress-walls redheads. “The Cullens are here?”

Gan nods, directs a finger at the crowd. “Yes, I saw them arriving just now.”

“You know them?” Lysander asks, arching a brow at the cousins.

Tömör prefers to shake his head instead. Gan gives a verbal answer, “No. Do you?”

Lysander shrugs his shoulders, “Never met them. But plenty of their stories are widespread since that dhampir’s birth.”

“Why are they here?” Lionel questions, his face impassive—though annoyance’s interwoven in his voice.

“Kassia invited them over,” Gan replies, gesturing dismissively in the air.  “Something about diffusing a potentially explosive war in-house.”

“The tension’s still high, I see,” Lysander pauses, lips curving into a smirk, “Perfect then, let the drama of Shakespeare’s proportion commences.”

The Shakespearian drama Lysander hopes to witness, is appallingly lacklustre. Better yet, there’s not a sign post anywhere to indicate any drama—be it badly scripted drama—to be found. He weights his choices; to loiter around or seek out some solitude and risk Kassia’s wrath.

He hasn’t shake off the tedious and mind-numbingly boring work of socialisation in the human world. Solitude will have to wait then. He makes a few half-hearted attempts to associate himself with new faces. And he abandons his efforts, opting to stand near the gopura instead.

It doesn’t surprise him much. That Cyan finds him, observing the floor with great disinterest, in the ocean of friendly socialisation. He had trained himself to hone Cyan’s voice, even if it’s a whisper of his name. She beckons for his presence.

It only takes a soft whisper, “ _Over here, I want you to meet somebody_.” Lysander catches a glimpse of his beloved in a conversation with several fellow vampires. He obeys her request and walks up to her.

“Esme, Bella,” she says to two petite brunettes, “this is Lysander. My mate.” Cyan’s lips form a smile and she glances at him, “Lysander—”

“Esme Cullen, Carlisle’s wife. Isabella Cullen, Edward’s,” Lysander rattles the first words on his mind, forcing himself to produce a smile ( _common courtesy_ , Cyan reminds him), “I have heard so much things about you two. The Cullen Ladies.”

Isabella’s smile mirrors Lysander’s own; only hers is the smile when one tries so hard to recall the muscles involved, resulting a mechanical and uncanny twitch of the lips. She hasn’t blink. Her hands fall on her sides, unmoving like a tree stump.

Esme’s smile comes off rather genuine—the by-product of centuries spent into mimicking humans—but Lysander knows a fake smile when he sees one.

“I’m sorry that the same cannot be said to you,” Esme breaks the silence, her perfect manufactured smile remains and she offers him a hand. Their unblinking golden irises scrutinise him.

He returns the favour, forming his own opinions—nothing glowingly favourable. “No offense taken. I’d be more surprise if you’ve heard of me,” he confesses, takes her hand and gives it a light shake. Esme touches Isabella’s wrist, gives her an encouraging nod.

Isabella sticks her hand out; Lysander repeats his gesture. Flashes of her shielding powers—everything from its uses, applications and limitations—fill his mind, overloading him with new and valuable information.

He drops her hand unceremoniously. Lysander blinks and turns to Cyan; a frown threatens to displace his smile. Instead Cyan intertwines their fingers together, away from the Cullens’ sights. She leans closer to his ear, whispers the words he wanted to hear, “Go.”

“If you would excuse me, I believe I had taken too much of your time away from Cyan. It was nice meeting the two of you.”

Lysander smiles and leaves the three women alone.

* * *

 **He makes his way along the gallery** —passageway along the hall’s walls. Navigating through their guests, he locates Sükrü lounging at the courtyard’s steps, next to the gopura. Flanking his sides are the red-haired cousins, Gan and Tömör. Lionel stands a few feet away from them, hands deftly knitting a scarf.

“Sükrü, you might need to alter some parts for the security,” Lysander says, casts a sweeping glance around them.

“Do I have to?”

Lysander curls his lips into a smirk, “You have to,” taps his index finger against his temple.

“Oh, new information. Who’s the subject?” Sükrü replies, in his native Turkish, and dusts off orange fur from his two piece suit.

Lysander points his chin at the Cullens’ direction. “One of our ‘honoured’ guests,” he answers back in flawed Bruneian. 

Sükrü perks up from his seat, draws to his full height. Excitement sparkling in his ruby eyes. A grin spreads over his face—wide and open—baring his pearly white teeth.

“Them?” He arches a brow.

With a curt nod, Lysander relays all the information of Isabella Cullen’s psychic shield ability to him, their tactical strategist. “Is this all?”

Lysander nods. “Looks like my plans from A to C are no longer in use. We’ll have to de—”

“I can’t wait for the performance tonight,” Lionel interrupts them, gazing up from his needles. Tosses a quick glance pass Lysander’s shoulders, his eyes widen slightly.

“Boys, this is Renesmee Cullen,” Cyan introduces a child not older than four years or so, “Bella’s daughter.”

The child smiles a toothy grin, wrapping her tiny arms around a man’s neck tighter. He’s impressively tall that his dark eyes bearing holes into Tömör’s sangria eyes. His lips splitting into a snarl, flashing sharp canine-like teeth.

“Who are her posse?” questions Gan, waving a hand at a group of dark-haired men behind the child and the man. All men bear almost striking resemblances—bulky physique, skin brown like chestnut trees and short cropped black hair—to each other.

“I’m guessing the kid’s bodyguards,” Lysander chimes in. “Shapeshifters.”

“This man is Jacob Black. He’s a Native American from La Push,” Cyan says, moves her hands into action. It’s always unsettling if they don’t adhere to human mannerism.

“Leeches,” their leader hisses, his black eyes harden at them. Children—all of them—bare their teeth, supressing their growls.  

A woman slaps her hand over the man’s arm, staring him down. “Just don’t, Jake. Not here.”

The woman—reminds Lysander of Cyan’s skin before she joined the realm of undead—wears her black shiny hair at shoulder length. She sighs. Her dark locks shaking in disapproval, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Now boys,” his mate levels a warning crimson-eyed stare at the ashen complexioned men, “we are the civilised hosts, I expect only the best behaviours from you.”

“As you wish,” Lysander bows his head at her, pressing his lips into a smile. She mouths a silent “Thank you”, and returns to playing the diplomatic host.

“That is Leah Clearwater,” she adds, turns to set her carnelian stare at the boy flanking the female shapeshifter’s side, “Her brother, Seth Clearwater.”

The boy, whose dark eyes are so inquisitive, shifts his gaze from Cyan to the rest of them. He sticks his hand out; Lionel takes Seth’s hand first and shakes it. Lysander goes next, arms himself with a smile—waits for the information Sükrü would need.

Their reputations as protectors are laughable, Lysander thinks as he releases his grasp of the boy. As he takes in their shabby formal clothing—too tight, too large—constricting or loose on their bodies, he wonders if any of these ‘guardians’ in front of them fought a _real_ war before.

With their pleasantries over, Lysander shares a pointed look with Sükrü and a smirk adorning his lips. He follows the Turkish vampire’s line of sight—the child. They exchange understanding nods. The child’s next. 

She’s so close yet too far—for Lysander, with her guard around. Jacob has at least three inches over him—not to mention his ‘other’ form is the largest among Jacob’s pack. 

“Unlike the Cullens, most of our coven members came from different empires,” Cyan interrupts, her voice hitches an octave higher. Her red lips twitching into a strained smile. Cyan and diplomacy are inseparable, intertwined—given her empathic sensitivity. She extends such courtesy to people with a burning hatred for their kind, like the American shapeshifters.

“Like from different countries?”

Sükrü explains, “In a simple sense, yes. To elaborate further, you’re staring at people who lived through the Mongol Empire, 12th century of Persian Empire, Admiral Zheng He’s adventurous time—that’s just to name a few.”

“That’s fucking awesome,” Seth says, hardly blinking his eyes. Two members of the Black Pack trade whispers of scepticism, yet their eyes are unmoving from Lysander and his coven mates.

Cyan offers, “Two of them are actually Genghis Khan’s grandsons.”

“ _The_ Genghis Khan? His grandsons?” Seth scans all four of them, “That’s so fucking cool. This is so much better than the Cullens. Don’t get me wrong, but they’re like from 17 th century England and mostly US, it can be a little boring—”

The Cullen child pushes her lips forward, burying her face in his neck. Jacob narrows his eyes at young boy and grunts, “Seth.”

“My bad,” Seth amends, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment, “I meant that’s cool, but the Cullens are better.” He winks at the Cullen child, but returns his eyes to pale living corpses—a nickname Lysander overheard during their complaining—all too eager to hear more.

“But how was he like in real life?” asks Seth, black lashes blinking at Lysander and Lionel.

Cyan laughs and apologises for the sudden outburst. Gan’s lips split into a wide grin. Tömör’s forehead wrinkles only so slightly.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, kid. We’re not the Mongolians. They are,” Lionel answers, aiming his finger at the cousins.

“B-but they have red hair,” blurts out one of them, the one whose face resembles Jacob the most, Embry Call. He repeatedly shifts his eyes from Lionel to Gan.

“They used to have green eyes too,” Lysander divulges, lips twisting into a grin at the surprise in Americans’ black coal eyes—even Leah couldn’t hide it.

“I thought they’d looked like—” Quil Ateara doesn’t finish his sentences, cautiously staring at Lysander and Lionel.

Lysander points at himself and suggests, “Us? More Asian looking?”

He’s amused by their reactions—they all are. Aren’t these boys the same ones who supposedly tried to fight _the_ Volturi, older than most of them in their combined ages? Aro, Caius, Marcus and the wives. Their Guards.

They collectively nod. Seth sheepishly replies, “Well, yeah.”

“There’s more to Asia than what you read in your textbook,” Cyan says, curving an arm around Lysander’s and moulding herself into his embrace. She untangles herself from him, the second Haruka’s hand beckons them all.

“Please excuse us for a moment,” she says, “duty calls.”

‘Duty calls’—the Volturi will be arriving less than ten minutes now. Cyan moves, her heels clacking against the stone less awkward than before. Trailing after her are onion-skinned men and their eyes red with human blood.

All but Tömör.

Tömör snaps his fingers, summoning a lanky servant. The servant with his chubby cheeks and abashed smile scurries to Tömör. His bangs spilling over his face, obstructing his sight and he flips his hair to a side. The tray in his hand nearly flies away.  

The boy grips his tray hard, knuckles white with effort. Apologies spill out from his lips, incoherently like his lack of coordination. Tömör pays no heed to the boy and his apologies, instead commands him, “Follow me.”

Tömör opens his stride, wide and silent, like a large tiger cornering its prey. It’s uncharacteristic of him—to approach first, unprovoked. The servant boy tails after Tömör, bubbling steps plop against the floor. Only moving when Tömör moves, he stops at a distance from Jacob and the Cullen child.

Tömör halts in his steps, translucent skin inches away from bronzed face—he whispers into Jacob’s ears, “Behave yourselves, please.” He takes two steps away from Jacob.

“You’re not the only shapeshifters around here,” Tömör says, trading a swift eye contact with the servant.

The servant—a boy, barely in his late teens—curls his upper lips into a sly grin. Innocent black eyes flashing ember’s sparks—then briefly fades back to black.

“Tömör, come along,” Lysander whirls around and calls, knowing that quiet Tömör can be the persistent predator—unrelenting in his pursuits, once he found a challenging prey. He’s the grandson of Genghis Khan after all.  

Tömör picks up his pace and joins them, immortals of cold skin and ruby eyes, without a protest—never looking back at Jacob and his pack.

A smirk forming on his lips.


	3. III - 1999.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Volturi marches with precision and purpose. To break the formation, is to court danger senselessly. Renata won’t stand for danger befalling Aro. Standing next to Marcus—to take Didyme’s spot—is to cross a line Renata prays not to cross.

**III.**

* * *

 “The life of party isn’t my nature, but it keeps me alive. Or the illusion of it.”

—Kassia Hidayat.

* * *

 **The setting sun spreads its shadows wider across the horizon, as it dips further away from the amber-tinted skies.** Renata squints against the glare involuntarily. Four black vans lined in a straight row, parked on unmarked gravel road. Aro, their master, stands still in her line of sight, blood-red eyes firmly set against the black van.

He extends a pale arm towards his mate, beautiful—deadly—Sulpicia. Lips with smiles that hides a thousand complement thoughts. Next, Caius and his ancient bride, Athenodora, exit the vehicle.

Renata wrinkles her nose at the sudden breeze of country stench of industrialised farms. It’s faint, not enough to ruin anticipation building within her.  

Renata’s attention wanders across the panoramic view. Lush greenery stretching as far as her eyes could see—glimpse of weathered stones peeking out from large twisted roots. A snake-like river remains free of the green canopy.

The trees are not the Italian trees. They’re not far apart, branchless. No autumn’s rust to extend its hue to the leaves, only leaving orange behind its wake.

Nor are they the trees of Malta. Renata laughs inwardly, for there are no such things as trees in Malta—unless shrubs are counted as trees. Not like this. Forests with the trees fought each other to reach the skies. Some grown without deviating. Others stretch their branches and twigs away from them. Leaves so large that it covers her entirely from any cool rain droplets. Canopy roof that blocks the sun’s rays without hesitation.

And she thinks, she understands the appeal of such forests. It brings her to carefree days, a human child taking in the wonders of the world. A luxury lost when she pledged to safeguard her family line. A privilege regained and lost once again as she shifted her allegiance to guard Aro as his living shield.

Renata takes her place behind Aro—not far from her master. Her hand primed for Aro’s shoulders. Joonas, Sulpicia’s hulking of a guard, shoots her a quizzical look.

“Yes, Joonas?” Renata asks, glossy lips carving a saccharine smile. Tilts her head backwards to take in the giant’s face; she’s a mouse to his bear-size form.

“My spot,” Joonas grunts, absent of malicious mockery. Gently ushers her to Marcus’s left.  

The Volturi marches with precision and purpose. To break the formation, is to court danger senselessly. Renata won’t stand for danger befalling Aro. Standing next to Marcus—to take Didyme’s spot—is to cross a line Renata prays not to cross.

“Master,” she starts, unsure whether she should continue to state the obvious.

Aro turns to her and his garnet eyes languidly reading her thoughts without his hand grazing her skin. “I understand the concern, Renata. We are guests, we are not here to carry out the law.”

“Your protection is my main priority,” she states, biting her lower lip and casting her eyes on the ground—even now to stare Aro directly fills Renata with unwarranted sense of her disrespect for her master.

“Yes, it would send the wrong message if you’re touching my shoulders all the time,” Aro smiles, soft with diamond at the edges and a reassuring nod at Renata, “Don’t worry, my dear. We are not breaking the formation. We are merely illustrating a non-offensive front.”

Her master’s wife burgundy-lined lips twitch to a smirk, eyes the forest with mounting delight, “We owe it to Kassia for throwing us this wonderful celebration, isn’t that right, my husband?”

“Indeed.”

Without any protest or doubt left, Renata assumes her designated spot—next to Marcus. His lips twist to a mile that barely reaches his eyes—adding ages to his translucent skin, if only imaginary.

“What are we waiting for?” Cauis questions, agitation slipping out from his scarred throat.

“Impatience is unbecoming of you, husband. Please restraint yourself from the unnecessary anger. Not tonight,” Athenodora’s voice rings harsh and playful.

Soon the vast forested valley’s veiled in darkness, masking a cluster of cloaks as they move. Speeding through the forest, Demetri leads them—like a hunting dog on the scent of his master’s prey. He raises a slender hand and they halt.

Mist slowly seeps into the valley, shrouding them in white. Renata glances over her feet—two inches of all heels digging into a bed of litter leaf. Not the place she thought she’d be wearing heels in it. Or join by the rest of her fellow guards—all dressed in fanciful formal clothing.

Behind her, Demetri mocks Heidi for being a ‘sore’ to the eyes—it’s a lie, for Heidi’s beauty is paramount and a fact. Nonetheless Heidi’s lips quirk upwards, returns a mock of her own at Demetri.

“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” Chelsea questions, her fingers interlacing her husband’s in a second’s flash.

“We are,” Demetri reassures.

A beat of silence passes. A monkey’s howl echoes in the distance. The trees ahead begin to untwist and unravel, clearing a path that leads them all the way to the temple.

There’s a maniacal spark glinting in Aro’s scarlet eyes. Renata knows her master so intimately—she has to—when every move he makes, she must anticipate to block attacks. That he’s searching for the gifted with a power to manipulate plants.

Wide stairs that lead the temple’s peak, narrowing in each increasing level. At the end of each step on both sides, ashen skin muted against the striking colourful palette that hangs on the bodies of her fellow vampiric brethren. Though vampirism has stripped them of the skin they were born into and made their faces too angular and perfect, Renata could imagine these immortals were once humans—and as humans, they must be fascinating sight to see.

One by one, they move. The leaders first, their spouses gliding next to them—saved for Marcus and his heavy steps against the stone steps.

The soft metallic dings move in oceanic waves through the air. Harmonic music playing in steady regular beats as metal clash at metal and wooden rap against stretched animal skin of a drum. Acoustic percussion that lulls anyone with ears to listen—ensnaring attention likes flies on homophonic webs.

As the Volturi sweeps through the stairs, on cue each vampire turns their bodies sideways to face the Volturi. Renata sees new faces and old—a friend or a foe—somewhere among the brethren that lurks behind the Volturi’s shadows.

The calming legato draws to an end, as Aro and the leaders reaches the peak. Three embraces three, and Sulpicia pecks Kassia’s cheek lightly. “It’s truly been centuries too long.”

Kassia’s a petite but curvy woman, about an inch or two taller than Renata. Glossy ink hair styled in a sophisticated up do. Her skin—pale tinted olive, similar to Renata’s. All swathed in red and gold on batik sarong and cut to fit her body. Berry-red eyes welcome all of them with warmth and familiarity. 

Kassia moves to peck Athenodora’s sculptured cheek next. “I was worried, that you wouldn’t come after your American excursion.”

Aro pipes on the behalf of the Volturi. Her master’s play with words could rival Shakespeare’s, if her master decides to put on a charming front and stop looking too giddy at the inconsequential of things. “Nonsense, Kassia. For you, we will cross the ocean, fly in metallic birds to touch the soil that makes your country.”

“You say all the poetic things, Aro,” Kassia replies, switching her sights between husband and wife, “I envy you, Sulpicia.”

Sulpicia says, rolling long eyelashes at her husband, “He’s not so poetic when we’re in Volterra, I’m afraid.”

Her master’s attention wanders to the vampires lined the steps to the bottom. A scowl makes its way to Cauis’ ashen face, the usual standard fare as far as Cauis’ capable of showing emotions.

Casually staring at the same direction her master’s sight, Kassia mentions, tease taut in her melodic voice, “Aro, you know Charmion’s power won’t work here.”

Aro lets out a giggle, arching a brow at the crowd, “Is that so? Is it a crime to try?”

“You could just ask, old friend. I prefer a trade-off. And yet, it would do some good for my coven mates to leave Asia once in a while. Experience something new, if you will.”

“A trade? A barter between our covens of gifted guards, what an antiquated idea,” Aro muses.

Athenodora says, over Caius’ murmuring complaint, “We are antiquated creatures of our time, Aro.”

“A little indulgence of a past would keep the memory alive. However, this is not the place or time to discuss about trading,” Sulpicia interjects, casting red-eyed stare at Aro.

“Sulpicia has a point. Let’s not waste precious time outside here,” Kassia says, offering to lead the congregation of vampires into the temple.

“After the hostess,” Sulpicia replies, signalling Kassia to move ahead with her slender ashen hand.

Once the last of the Volturi enters the gopura, Kassia’s coven moves to trail after them in a militaristic manner.

* * *

 **With the lure of ancient knowledge of lost civilisation, Athenodora waggles a brow at her husband. Caius frowns but utters no protest.** He’s whisked away by his wife’s quest to scour for hidden academic treasures. Together, they make their way towards the library.

A Korean vampire—marmalade eyes and vixen grin—coaxes Marcus into observing a mourning lover’s dance. Renata sees Laura, Marcus’ personal guard, tread close to the raven-haired leader into the Hall of Dancers.

Aro makes a sweeping gaze around the courtyard. Renata sticks close to her master, matching small stride for large and giddy ones. Scurrying after Aro as he searches for the elusive plant-manipulating immortal.

In Renata’s haste and determination to keep Aro close, she bumps into Sulpicia’s guard, Joonas, and nearly crash at the nearest wall.

Joonas’ fast reflexes prevent Renata from slapping her face against the stone wall. He mumbles a gruff apology.

Renata waves off her fingers and lips splitting into a wide grin. “It’s fine, Joonas. Thanks.”

Joonas darts to his mistress’ side, taking his place as her shadow guard, as Sulpicia makes her rounds of pleasant conversations.

“It’s alright, dearest. Go ahead and mingle. Kassia guaranteed us that her guards will provide adequate protection,” her master reassures. His wide-eyed gaze flickers to the other guards across the hall.

“B-but,” Renata manages, before Aro plants a skinny finger against her lips.

“Enjoy this night, Renata. It’s a night that rarely comes.”

“As you wish, Master,” she replies, with Aro’s finger still set on her lips.

“Wonderful. Now run along, dearest,” Aro says, retracting his finger and making shooing motions at Renata. 

It’s not long before Renata is taken by the atmospheric beauty. The air cool and humid—unlike wet Forks. The music is both alluring and baffling, peace and mystery riding on the waves of another mystical world Renata isn’t privy to. She moves from courtyard to courtyard, admiring the curving lines of anomalous humanoid creatures etched on the curtilage’s walls.

She stops in front of rectangular windows, takes in the sweeping view of the moon peeking out from the clouds.

“And I thought Aro would never let you out from Italy,” pipes a voice from the collonette behind her.

Renata swirls around, in time to see a man emerging from the collonette. His face partially hidden underneath the shadows—save for his upturned full lips.

“That’s not true,” she counters, “Master Aro visits other European countries,” Renata reaffirms and gulps uncertainty like bitter animal blood, “Sometimes.”

Slowly he’s out from the shadows. Leans against the collonette, arms flexing over his chest and he says, “Seems like Aro doesn’t get out from the European continent much.”

“That I have to agree,” Renata concedes. She eyes the man in front of her, from his dust-coated loafers to his tuxedo. Her memory works to match his face to the ones she’d seen before. He once roamed around Volterra, a guest of Aro’s. Looking worse for wear, with his thick hair tied loosely into a bun and boots seen better days. An immortal whose talents Aro tried to fit into his arsenal of gifted guards—but couldn’t.

“It’s you!” Renata squeals in delight, “I haven’t seen you since forever.”

The man, matches Master Marcus’ height, wears his long pitch black hair in braids that reminds Renata of fishtails. Permanent stubbles litter his sharp jaw, enhancing the ‘messy traveller’ look Lionel described in his emails.

He’s always generous with words, his lopsided grin could attest to that. “Hello to you too, Renata. I love what you did to your hair. Modern look suit you.”

If only he’s a little shorter, she’d could hug him immediately. Her favourite way to meet old friends. But she’s tilting her chin upward, just to look at his face.

It takes few hopeful battling of her eyelids. And perhaps, opening her arms wide for him.

“You too. What do you go by now?”

Lysander’s cheeky grin morphs into an understanding smile. He lowers his body to her level, Renata wraps his lower torso in her short arms.

“Lysander. But I was hoping to try Logan in forty years’ time.”

They part and Lysander moves to the window, taking a seat on the windowsill. She cranes her neck, hands on the unoccupied ledge, next to his dangling legs. The way down is awfully too far. Renata sticks to keeping her entire body rigid, fingernails digging into the stones beneath the sill.

“I think Logan actually suit you.”

“You think so?”

Lysander comes to his feet, offers her his solid arm. She curves an arm around his and they step into Hall of Dancers.

“Yes. Renata _isn’t_ out of style yet. So, Master Aro lets me to keep my name for now.”

“Speaking of new names,” Lysander turns his claret eyes over the courtyard, “anyone dislike theirs? Melchior mentioned Charmion changed hers.”

“Her name fell out of fashion in few years. It’s Chelsea now. But Afton is keeping his.”

“Is Melchior with you? We had an arrangement to meet here.”

Renata points a finger at one of the gopuras. “He’s here. Somewhere. I think I saw him with Phoebe and Gina by the altar.”

He brings her to a band of musicians reigning over the metallophones and drums. Dancers move to the anagogical mallet chimes, with tiger-like grace and precision of rope-walkers.

“So, I was really hoping to catch a glimpse the infamous Volturi cloak up close,” Lysander says, lips curling into an exaggerated pout.

She untangles her arm from his. Renata looks down at her dress, and a grin twisting her lips, “Too bad. Master Aro specifically said we’re here as party guests.”

Lysander shrugs his shoulders. “I guess that makes sense. How do you like it here?”

“We throw banquets and balls for appearance’s sake every cornerstone era. But it’s not like this,” she waves at the chamber, “because we actually dress up appropriately. And here, it’s like having a costume party. Almost like we went back in time. What year we’re pretending to be in?”

“1999. Lionel once said ‘it was the simpler times’,” Lysander helpfully supplies.

“I can’t believe I’ve been alive this long and I’ve never been here. I mean Master Aro only travel if the cases are dire.”

A dark brow early touching his hairline, “And that’s rarely the case?”

“Yes! Most of the time, Aro sends other guards to investigate. The Cullens were serious enough that the wives came along,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulders.

“They went to Forks too? That must be a vacation for all of you, since they hardly leave Volterra.”

Renata leans on the balls of her stilettos and one hand steadying her body on Lysander’s arm, “Forks isn’t exactly the vacation I had in mind.”

Eyes scanning the chamber for Aro—she’s still Aro’s shield. Her duty is to attend Aro’s safety. She catches him—the sole brunette—among a sea of blonds. He’s in a deep conversation with men from Scandinavian coven. His diamond hands are now encased in white gloves.

“It isn’t? I thought everyone loves Washington.”

“Oh no,” Renata shakes her curls, “it’s not the city. I would like to visit the White House one day.”

“We could try breaking into the White House,” Lysander suggests conspiratorially and the end of his lips quirking into a sly smirk, “Whenever you’re in the US.”

“Consider that a promise,” Renata coils her pinkie around his, and he shakes it **.**


	4. IV - Traditionalists.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She never heard of this coven before. They’re not the Volturi with their judge, jury and executioner reputation. Even Carlisle who spent decades in the company of onion-skinned leaders, never crossed paths with anyone claimed to be a member of the coven.

**IV.**

* * *

 “With great power, comes the supernatural shit show we usually ended up in.”

—Sükrü Ozil.

* * *

 **The ceiling reminds Bella of Grecian fresco.** Where the Grecian favoured soft colours, this place clamoured for bold hues. Each mural bears complement and repetitive geometric patterns of flowers, moon and the stars. Some doesn’t shy away from red violence and decapitation of eldritch enemies in perilous battles of heaven and hell.

The murals pale in comparison to the beauty of the immortals flooding in this ancient plaza. The last time Bella’s in the company of vampires from obscure parts of the world, she’s a newborn, a new mother, and a new wife.

It’s only three years ago. Impeccable memory fools her into feeling it was yesterday, she’d seen each coven departing from home. Celebratory smiles were all around. It’s a different story for the Denali coven. They were shrouded in mourning clouds of Irina’s death.

The very fact that she’s standing across Heidi and Demetri of Volturi is a testament of how surreal this affair is.

This is a gathering of a scale massive— _sacred_ —in a grand place such as this. Edward once told her that their numbers aren’t high—this shindig refutes that. There must be more vampires here outnumbering the human servants.

Despite rather specific dress code which gives way to the feeling of a dress up office party, it doesn’t change the fact she feels like she’s on a pilgrimage of sort.

She never heard of this coven before. They’re not the Volturi with their judge, jury and executioner reputation. Even Carlisle who spent decades in the company of onion-skinned leaders, never crossed paths with anyone claimed to be a member of the coven.

There are wisps of legendary stories about a coven twice the size of the Volturi. Exploits that infringed and bolstered by chimerical aggrandisement.

Yet so far, she’d seen no evidence to back up the notion of this mysterious coven is deadlier than the Volturi. The Volturi has Jane and Alec. This coven called themselves as ‘Srivijaya’ from an antediluvian empire once reigned in Southeast Asia, are made up of artisans, inventors and scholars.

It’s easier to distinguish between other covens from the Srivijaya coven. Still, these scholars, artisans and inventors remind her too much of Jasper.

Scars are where their similarities with Jasper starts and ends. Their scars are nothing like Jasper’s battle marks of repetitive diamond-like human teeth ripped into flesh. The scars on their prismatic skin are diverse akin to a quillwork Jacob made for Nessie. There aren’t many covens with its members (the entirety) and their beauty tarnished by ugly scars.

Cyan’s pleasant face bore claws marks scratched on both sides that ended at her ears. 

Tömörbaatar, one of the red-haired Mongolians, had two jagged lines lacerated across his eyebrows and two more that ran from his cheekbones and stopped on his lips.

The other, Ganbaatar, bore a trio of scars that ran down vertically across his left side profile and ended just above his lips—almost giving him an unsettling perpetual crooked smile.

A large line slashed Lionel’s forehead down to his jaw and another thinner vertical line underneath his lower lip to his chin.

The coven’s leader also sported a large scar that impaired her smooth forehead, hidden away by her bangs. Only visible from the sides.

“I hope we don’t distract you from enjoying your time,” a male voice interrupts Bella’s musing. 

Bella jerks her attention from Kassia, pivots on her heels to face the voice, “Huh, what?”

“You’ve been staring,” Lysander points out. His face isn’t any different from the others; a deep vertical line carved across his nose, mere inches away from the bridge. One shorter scar that sliced down over his right eyebrow and ended at his cheek.

Part of her is relieved, her mortification no longer shows itself on her alabaster skin, but she permits an abashed smile, “What gave me away?”

Lysander’s lips twitch into a lopsided smile, “You didn’t avert your eyes from any of our faces. And of course, your mouth’s open.”

Bella fingers her lower lip, then sheepishly says, “Oh.”

“It’s normal,” he says, bitterness sweeps and collides with the nonchalance of his voice. But the smile on his lips doesn’t reach his blood red eyes.

She still finds herself tightening her muscles involuntarily at Jasper’s ravaged face and body, when she sees that Jasper isn’t all smooth and unblemished, that he’s a military veteran. “It is?”

“Yes, when you lived with people bearing scars not too dissimilar from yours, you forget easily.”

Like Alice, who views Jasper through love-tinted eyes and nothing less. Every day, it’s so easy to miss the love that sparkles in her golden eyes, when all one sees is perfection that is Edward, next to scarred leonine Jasper.

“What war?” Bella inquires, trying to imagine a bookish Lysander without those horrid marks on his face.

The prolonged silence prompts Bella to add in haste, “I mean, I’m sorry I shouldn’t ask that.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, then curving into a genuine smile. “You’re curious. I do appreciate people with intense curiosity,” he pauses, “back to your question, it’s a war you wouldn’t heard of.”

“Even the Volturi’s unaware of it?”

Lysander shrugs his broad shoulders. “Perhaps, I’m not sure. It was a war fought away from the surface.”

The word ‘war’ ensnares her fullest attention. She’d seen the abhorrent aftermaths of the Southern Wars on Jasper, Peter and Charlotte. Permanent reminders of a terrible past on their bodies.

“It happened underground?”

“All of it. Lasted for five decades,” he replies, as if he’s merely commenting on weather.

There’s nothing more intriguing than a war bathed in the venom of immortals. Bella’s curiosity is winning her senses and manners. “Why? What sparked the war? Newborn armies?”

“None of that sort. It was trivial. The usual fare of territorial dispute among covens.”

In the centre of the room, her daughter urges Seth to mimic an aerobatic performer hanging upside down from the roof. The performer moves along the roof beams, his hands firmly balancing a tray of refreshments for Jacob and the pack. The courtyard rings with callow laughter. It bounces against the weathered stones, magnified and out of place.

Nessie, barely reaches up to Jacob’s waist, is the only child in attendance—Jane and Alec are too serious and sadistic in manner, striking a discord imbalance between their pre-pubescent looks and their Volturi duties.

Lysander spares her daughter and Jacob a swift glimpse. His face slips into an unreadable expression.

She flickers a gaze at her daughter and Jacob. Everyone’s accounted for, but Leah isn’t part of the crowd. Typical Leah.

“That’s Jacob. He’s from a tribe called Quileute in Forks. The Cullens have a treaty—”

He returns his gaze to her, half-amused and equal parts condescending. “I’m familiar with treaties like that. That isn’t revolutionary. We made a pact with the humans and their guardians that we would take deserving humans as food. In return, they allowed us to continue with our lives. A tradition dated from the 15th century.”

“Just like that?”

Lysander absentmindedly nods, slim fingers fiddling with his silver cufflinks.

“The humans. To be exact, their guardians are skin-walkers hardened and honed into one purpose, to guard humans against us. It doesn’t discriminate if you’re a woman or a man, they shaped these children to protectors. Your coven play with little wolves, Isabella.”

“Bella,” she corrects.

His smile turns calamitous around the edges. “Ours are tigers and bears, larger and deadlier than those wolves, _Bella_.”

She can’t picture tigers and bears bigger than Jacob’s wolf form—and he’s the largest. Or that there’s a race of humans utterly dedicated to protection. That their children—not older than Nessie, perhaps—were involved in their campaign against the undead. One miscalculation of strength could warrant a crush skull.

“Those who do not turn, learnt the art of warfare using weapons fashioned out of their dead shape-shifters and murdered vampires. So you see the fear of them is warranted and respected,” he continues, his voice hardening with cautious wary.

Extinction of true werewolves under the crusade of a snow-haired soldier’s fear springs to her mind. The only race with potential to eradicate crystal-like immortals from the world—gone. What’s left of their legacy is a forgotten existence by the ones that feared them.

In their place, shapeshifters linked to the animal spirit of a fearless tribal leader emerged. They’re not guaranteed successes against vampires. The amount of effort poured into defence by young and clueless boys forced to turn to men over a period of months were taxing—so easily Victoria evaded them. A group of Quileute wolves needed to finish off Laurent, a _lone_ vampire.  

Bella finds it hard to believe such fear for shapeshifters still exists. Her careless lips utter, “Couldn’t you attack them by taking their young?”

His face twists into a grimace, crimson eyes narrow at Bella. “That would be _dishonourable_ to us. And they keep us in check. After all, the Southern Wars are a shining example of why order must be in place.”

“If you had been co-existing with them, then how did you get involved in a territorial war?”

His expression shifts rather dramatically, immediate like blood droplet spreading and tainting clear water, and he’s jovial now—almost embarrassed.

“The war that broke out was quite recent. Started in 1940s, the year when human conflicts resulted in wars almost every corner of the world. When foreign countries sent support, the western vampires came along to fight. Most of them were seeking for easier preys. Asia was paradise,” he says, bitterness licking the last three words.

Lysander musters a depreciative smile. “Of course, the guardians were able to curb them. But we were _traditionalists_. The entire coven and guardians were,” he says, voice almost deep like thunderstorm raging at the sea.  

“Somewhere, the western vampires started to feed false information about insurgents hiding in the guardians’ villages.”

Innocent villagers slain, as armies sweeping through the villages, leaving no lives spared. An effective tactic to decimate a species of shapeshifters in plain sight. 

“They were at the mercy of the armies. They killed everyone, didn’t they? Since the guardians can’t be distinguished from normal humans,” Bella says. Images of Emily, Claire, Sue and Billy lay dead and broken, creeps into her mind.

“An entire village with several generations of guardians wiped out in a single decade.”

Lysander raises his hand up at a pair of twins passing by them. They stop briefly to address Bella. Their features are symmetrical, with full bloody lips and angular jaws. Copper varnishes underlying their pale pallor hinting their Indian heritage.

“Bella, this is our very own Jane and Alec—Kishan and Kiran,” Lysander introduces them, a smile gleaming on his lips. The twins carved identical wide grins—the stark contrast to the sour-faced Volturi twins. Older too, at least in their mid-twenties.

Bella graces them with an acknowledging nod and a polite greet, “Nice to meet you two.”

The twins leave him and Bella, Lysander picks up where he left off. Again with the nonchalance of talking about the weather.

“They grew wilder and unchecked by the dwindling numbers of the guardians. Destroying everything in their paths.”

It’s the way the end of his lips quirking upwards, lopsided and innocuous, that rattles Bella’s steel-lined nerves. Jasper wasn’t this cheery as he recounted his military past. But Lysander is almost undisturbed by everything that caused those marks.

Yet she persists in asking anyway, “Why didn’t the Volturi intervene?”

“Why should they? It was not their responsibility to bear. It was _ours_ and ours alone. We organised an attack. It failed in the most spectacular ways we didn’t predict,” he scoffs, scratching his collarbone. “Half of our population in the second battle once they turned their own battalions for fresh recruits for armies. Blackmailing the guardians into being their lapdogs.”

“Did you use newborn armies?”

His head shakes sideways and he sticks his hands into his pockets.

Bella raises an inquiring brow at him. “Why didn’t you? You could secured victory easily.”

Benito certainly did. Victoria had the same idea.

“They were unpredictable. With terrible bloodlust, even Sükrü’s suggestion power couldn’t curb or control. We had lost too much humans to the western vampires. Our food supply’s rather limited.”

“Jasper said they’re always predictable,” Bella says, catching the sight of Jasper’s honey blond locks next to Emmett’s brown curls.

“Did Mr. Whitlock say that?” Lysander asks, actually staring at her. His blood red eyes darken intensely, pretty lips splitting into a muted snarl.

“This,” he waves at his neck—scars spiralled away from the base of his collarbone, like network of connecting and splintering rivers, to his chest, “is when a newborn couldn’t distinguished between comrade and enemy. We blocked them from their access to human blood and they retaliated with this.”

And she wonders what kind of scars hiding beneath the tuxedos and dresses the coven wears—whether they’re all blunt edges of sharp teeth or gnarly vein-like lines adorning each surface. Their bodies must be grotesque artworks of their past.

Her silence speaks for her unspoken question that dies on her lips.

“That war turned scholars and pacifists into warriors. We fought. Sükrü devised battle plans. Kassia oversaw the entire operation,” Lysander nonchalantly gestures at his face, “you can see that being vampires are futile, not advantage against vampires with military training.”

“Not to mention the guardians were forced to fight their battles against us,” Lysander shrugs, “it was a battle of three armies, allegiance so loose and shifting as the war continued.”

It would be a battle of Goliath and David proportions. It’s like pitting a housewife against a soldier in a fight that surely was over before it even begun. Esme would never stand a chance against a man like Jasper. Vampire or no vampire, it’s a rigged battle.

“I had never entertained the idea of me involved in a battle as human and vampire, the majority of us were not equipped to fight.” The lines on his face deepen into a crooked rueful grin.

“I think I understand. Not a warrior myself.”

“And yet, we did. Every single one of us. Peace is restored,” he states. The last three words made in mockery tone.

“What have become of the vampires you defeated?”

He sniffs disdainfully, “we purged their existences from any and all Asian lands.”

There’s a momentary pause—the smell of acrid rust lingers in the air—and Lysander inhales a deep breath.

His garnet eyes canvass the plaza, like a cat searching out its prey. His gaze, unblinking and focused, jumps from one human to another, disregarding Bella as if she’s not in front of him. Without a moment’s notice, his concentration fades and breaks off like icicles from pine tree on a spring’s dawning noon.

He apologises for the rude behaviour, and excuses himself away from Bella.

They’re all civilised, Bella tells herself, because beneath that mask of politeness, they still are immortals that crave for blood of a human variety.


	5. V - Secret Service.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t look like from here either. Forget your pale skin,” Leah pauses, twirling her own hair, “the blonde hair is a dead giveaway.”

**V.**

* * *

“First loves. True loves. Last loves. They all are so overrated.”

—Ling Li.

* * *

 **She dreamt of leaving La Push once.** Entertains the idea of backpacking through Asia. As part of the therapy she read online. The ones with headlines ‘How to heal yourself’ and shit like that.

But being stuck in the middle of the humid and dense forest and surrounded by hundreds of blood-sucking vamps isn’t how she picture this trip would turned out. Leah stops questioning the logics in the universe once Quil imprinted on a fucking toddler—and the worst, her Alpha decided that a half hybrid baby-vamp is the centre of his universe. The child of his ex-crush and his arch nemesis.

That last part actually broke her faith in the world.

The world has gone mad, Leah reminds herself from time to time.

She creases her nose in disgust. The faint stench of the Blondie on Leah’s borrowed little black dress doesn’t bother her much. Now when she forces herself to pay attention to all the weird delicacies laid out in a buffet table.

The buffet table. Overflowing with food. Human food. It’s not like they’re feeding anyone else. God knows the vamps won’t even register the sight of food. Except that Re-name-me kid. And her pack. The servants won’t touch it.

Stuffing her borrowed clutch with food, she escapes from the courtyard. Explores the temple instead. She’s already here in Asia. Might as well make the most of the situation. Only she’s not keen on sticking to the leeches-infested courtyard.

She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder. At Jacob. At Seth. At Embry and Quil. All engrossed with the acrobatic waiters and that little creepy baby vamp. She has half a heart to hover around her pack. Then again, she’s only a Beta.

And so far, Cyan promises no harm will befall on them—the guests. She doesn’t trust a word that human-eating leech says. Yet the presence of other shape-shifters eases her tightly wounded limbs a little. She could return to them faster before any of those leeches could attack anyway.

Leah wanders. Her heels scraping against the bare stone floor. Takes in all the weird carvings etched on the walls and stone pillars. Stops short in front of a large tapestry of bizarre creatures carved into the columns. She traces the wings of a two-headed humanoid figure with her index finger.

Everything about this place, reminds her how far she is from home. And yet, it doesn’t feel like she’s a thousand miles away either. The moonlight spills into the hallways through the gaps of each supporting columns. Lights the pathway, to an endless stretch of empty corridors.

Leah settles for the nook in the middle of the corridor. Leans into the alcove. Unfastens the clutch’s lock, she scoops the egg rolls out. Of all the food, she ends up with only egg rolls. The only type of food she could smuggle without being noticed.

The wind breeze whipping gently against her warm skin, cooling her. She eats in silence. Casting her eyes at the canopy of shadowy trees. The shifting clouds hide the moon, flinging darkness all around the temple and its trees.

If Leah closes her eyes, she could almost believe that she’s in a time where her people still wear moccasins, buckskins and faces painted in the colour of war.

And when she opens them, she’s back to the world where crazy is the new ‘normal’ apparently.

Leah sighs. Catching a trail of crumbs on her dress, she dusts them off.

A figure hides in the shadows, bearing the standard horrid scent of a leech. Exposed whitish skin stands out against the dimmed passage.

She’s not alone anymore. Goodbye to privacy. Leah crosses her arms, she’s not going anywhere. She picked this spot first.

“Aren’t you a long way from home?” pipes a voice, a faint trace of some kind of eastern European accent in her inflection. Otherwise, it’s a fairly generic American accent.

It must be something in those egg rolls. That Leah doesn’t hurl an insult as her first instinctive answer. No name calling. No snarl. Or even a growl.

The figure steps out into the moon light, revealing golden blonde hair styled in an updo. Golden irises that seems to glow eerily in the dark. Only for a moment.

There’s that feeling of familiarity scratching beneath her memories. Like a gut feeling twisting her insides, even though Leah has no context for such reaction. She buries the feeling down. One of the vamps promised her that no vampires will attack a non-vampire, Leah believed her.

“You don’t look like from here either. Forget your pale skin,” Leah pauses, twirling her own hair, “the blonde hair is a dead giveaway.”

The leech rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence passes. Neither woman pay each other the attention. Leah gazes down at her fingernails. Blondie chooses to stand still. Unblinking. Unbreathing. It’s just plain weird and disturbing.

“If you’re not gonna leave, you could at least try breathing. Or blink.”

The blonde blinks. Her lips curling into a sheepish smile, “Sorry.”

Leah waves her hand dismissively. “I’m Leah. If you don’t want an unflattering nickname—”

“Irina,” the leech offers, mimicking Leah’s pose at the opposite direction.

“You’re not stalking after me, are you?” Leah questions, setting a cautionary glance at Irina.

Irina shakes her head, a dry snort escapes from her mouth. “You’re not exactly my type.”

“Well, me either. But you leeches love human blood too much for my comfort. _Blood_ is _your_ type all the same.”

Irina doesn’t reply. A mere raise of her eyebrow will do. And Leah resists the temptation to slap her face in the obvious golden eyes staring at her.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You’re already asking.”

Irina dismisses the sarcasm with a flick of her wrist. “I’ve never seen a grown man being so attached to a little girl.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Irina’s talking about Jacob Black and Bella’s little Cullen spawn.

“I can’t tell whether that look he gives her is paternal affections or simply brotherly love. That child. She’s too perfect,” Irina trails off, staring into the distance.

“It’s all brotherly now. Give a few more years, they’d be banging each other like rabbits,” Leah snaps, cynicism coating the edge of her words. “For now, he’s the manservant to her holy highness. Everything she wants, Jake’s bound to do it.”

“If you don’t mind me be frank, that brand of devotion is just begging for a lifetime session with Dr. Phil.”

She’s used to keeping her thoughts to herself. Learnt to shield herself from Edward’s mindreading, from the wolf pack telepathy. Perfected in keeping her mouth shut once the frequent fighting gradually eroded her defiance. Until her own Alpha silenced her rebellious thoughts.

Leah doesn’t dispense truth bombs like it’s world war three anymore. Even if the pack could use it for the sake of their survival. And now, she’s alone in a strange land, with a leech no less. The truth is itching to leave her throat. The truth is out.

Leah snorts. “Here’s the kicker. That kid is his ex’s daughter, with the man who was Jake’s love rival. I swear, it’s like I’m stuck in one hell of cliché soap opera ever to grace reality.”

“Forget soap operas. It’s like reading the back cover of a trashy novel,” Irina replies, “And I don’t think I want to be in your shoes. Reminds me too much of Vladimir Nabokov’s novel to be exact.”

“See! That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Leah snickers. “That stupid imprinting just ruins lives,” her confession immediately snowballs into a rant, “Having genetics as the co-pilot—semi autopilot, since we cannot even stop it—to our lives is utterly stupid. Moronic. So much for free will.”

“That explains why a group of vampire killer wolves are playing personal bodyguards to a Cullen child,” Irina mutters to herself.

That brief sympathetic frown on Irina’s forehead only infuriates Leah more. And it’s not even Irina’s fault. But when she had bottled all these complaints for the last three years, it’s bound to get out of hand—once she’s exploded.

“But the tribe said it’s _meant_ to be. Seems like it’s a boys’ thing only. Since I’m not a boy, it doesn’t apply to me. You know, Jake imprinting on a normal girl—that I can deal with. B-but that _thing_ isn’t normal. It’s not even a fucking full human being. It _loves, wants_ blood, for Christ’s sakes.”

Caught in her honest fury fuelled rant, Leah knows she may have overstepped her boundaries. But she’d passed the point beyond caring about politeness. Irina’s bizarrely nice enough to not interrupt her at all. Even a leech like her is giving Leah some kind of respect compared to her pack mates.

“He didn’t even wanted to imprint! He’s like a zombie catering to that kid.”

She will never admit it. She misses the Jacob Black before that imprinting fiasco. Her current Alpha, Leah doesn’t know who he is anymore.

Irina narrows her eyes at Leah, and hisses, “Do you know what _that_ child is?” Irina’s gaze is distant and intense all the same. It’s like having someone staring deep into Leah’s soul, yet Irina’s mind is elsewhere.

“Duh,” Leah says, “she’s half-vamp and half-human. She doesn’t talk much. Prefers to touch people instead.”

“But I’m beginning to think there’s more to Re-name-me, with that look you’re wearing.”

Irina’s red lips split into a broad grin that doesn’t reach her yellow eyes. “In some folklore, those who are born from a union between a vampire and a human is called a dhampir,” Irina’s tone is grave. Solemn, even. “Until recently, dhampirs are just rumours. A figment of imagination. Like my sisters and I were the basis of succubae’s legends.”

Leah ain’t gonna lie. She’s impressed by Irina, if what Irina said being the actual succubus is true. “Wait. Hold up, what do you mean with ‘until recently’?”

“Word has it that the Cullens were on trial for creating an immortal child. The accusation proved false—”

“Because Bella’s spawn is half-vampire,” Leah finishes.  

Irina’s head bobs up and down, “So much has happened since then,” and the vampire releases a heavy sigh. She mumbles, “Those Cullens never think ahead. It’s always _their_ wants over us, other mere immortals,” and to Leah a little louder and clearly, “There are reports of dhampirs reoccurring more frequently.”

“There are more of those freaks?” Leah nearly shrieks, manages to get her voice down to a whisper.

“Unfortunately. You wouldn’t know about it. Nobody knows. I’m not convinced that even the Volturi are aware of their presence. And they’re occurring at an alarming rate.” Irina’s shoulders raises a little, like it’s the vampire equivalent of a shrug.

Leah had stopped smoking since Nessie told Jake she hated the smell of cigarettes. The kid’s nose is sensitive like a goddamn puppy. She’s been caught too many times, Leah lost count.

She doesn’t care if Nessie’s gonna have Jake nag her until the sun rises. This entire trip is slowly shaping to be one gigantic fucking nightmare—a trap—Leah had warned the pack about. Yet they persisted. Little Nessie always gets what she wants. She wants to go to Asia. She wants to see the temple. Who cares about Leah’s warnings?

What Leah really wanted is a bottle of tequila. But she’s not Nessie. Leah searches her clutch, hand trembles as she takes out a packet of cigarettes. She lights one cigarette, takes a long drag to calm her nerves. Tossing a look that says ‘You mind?’ at Irina.

Irina carves a soft smile, as she shakes her sideways. She doesn’t blink, keeps her yellow eyes on the cigarette pinched between Leah’s fingers. “Can I have one?”

“Help yourself,” Leah replies, flinging the pack and the lighter at the blonde vampire. Irina expertly catches it in one hand, and the lighter in another. They smoke without trading words. Not until Leah’s second cigarette.

Leah breaks the palpating silence between them. “Why?”

“Can’t you see? They’re attempting to recreate these abominations.” Irina crushes the bud of cigarette in between her thumb and forefinger, stuffs the bud between her breasts like one slides money into her Victoria Secret’s compartment. “The host is very particularly about keeping thrash to the bin,” Irina answers, nonchalantly.

Leah inhales nicotine and tobacco into her lungs. The cigarette’s end flickers, as tiny flame shortens it. Short enough that she squashes it and dump it into her purse.

Irina crosses her arms over her chest, eyes set firmly on her feet. Her face slack without any emotions.  Presses on with the information dump, “A few of these hybrids are beginning to display the ability to manipulate people. Recruiting hapless humans into being their caretakers once their immortal sires abandoned their dying mothers.”

Without letting her sentences sink in, Irina presses on, “They are creatures stuck in between two worlds. Perpetually craving for affections the same way vampires perpetually crave for blood.”

Leah decides against taking another cigarette out. One more and Nessie would nag her via Jake. She concentrates on staring at Irina’s side profile, “Then how do you know they’re multiplying?”

“All around Asia, there have been news of occults worshiping young children believed to be the reincarnation of their deities. Or so I’ve been told,” Irina confesses. “The coven I’m currently with is attempting to eradicate these problems before they could be wide-spread. For now, it’s only happening in rural areas—far from mainstream media.”

“These caretakers—do they worship the hybrids?”

“Often the cases I’ve read, they are. I wouldn’t call it ‘worship’. It’s more like they forced to submit themselves to these creatures. They become whatever these dhampirs required them to be. As long as these hybrids’ survival remains intact.”

“Even as personal bodyguards?”

“Not impossible.”

Those two words send chills down Leah’s spine. Every single hair on her body prickles.

“You looked like you’ve seen a ghost,” Irina’s honey-like voice cuts into her conscience.

It’s no coincidence that whatever these half-vamp kids are capable of, their effects on humans sounded too much like imprinting. She gets the idea—the rationale—behind imprinting. She understands why Quil would imprinted on Claire. Claire’s fully human. Chuckie, on the other hand, isn’t fully human. It makes sense in a slightly twisted context. She doesn’t like it. But it makes sense nonetheless.

Leah isn’t sure what compels her to part with the secrets of her tribe. But she does. To Irina. A vampire of all things considered. She explains imprinting the best as she can. And none of them, elders or not, knows what the real deal of imprinting is.

“Wait, you’re telling me your Alpha imprinted on a dhampir moments after she was born?” Irina’s pretty eyebrows nearly touches her hairline. Her nose crinkles in revulsion. “Your Alpha? The same boy who was moments away from killing it,” Irina adds as afterthought.

Leah nods twice. She could see Irina’s mind going a mental gymnastics on her impassive face. Patience isn’t one of Leah’s almost non-existent virtues. Tapping her fingers against her arms, Leah asks in a flat tone, “What? Spill it out, Irina.”

“Have you ever consider the possibility that your Alpha didn’t imprint?”

Leah’s head snaps to Irina so fast, her neck makes that tiny squeak noise. “Say what?”

“I mean, you said that she’s mentally an adult stuck in a child’s body. Her father wanted to kill her. So as your Alpha. So she desired protection from those whose intentions are to cause her harm. What’s the best protection against her vampire father hell bent on killing her?”

Her breath catches in her throat, strangles her words into incoherent muffles. “His arch nemesis. A wolf.”

Irina laments in the lowest whisper Leah almost missed, “Not just any wolf, apparently.”

“The Alpha.”

“With the Alpha, it gets its own personal shields.”

“Who that spawn thinks it is? The President? We’re supposed to be its Secret Service?” Leah hacks a bitter-licking laugh. The hollowness of her laugh bounces against the walls, carrying its echoes away from Leah.

Once her laughter dies out, to an eerie stillness mangled by the nosy crickets, she turns to Irina. “Is there a way to release him from the dhampir’s hold?”

“There’s no records of a successful attempt to break them out from the dhamphir’s power,” Irina’s voice falters for a beat too long, “But I could be wrong,” shrugging her shoulders with swan-like grace.

Those four words and one alphabet might have restore her faith in the world. If only just a little piece.


End file.
